Barfly
a/n: You could easily think of this as the scene before the opening scene of PURGATORY… but it could just as easily be some other night… I suspect there have been a few like this for Bobby lately.
He found himself sitting where he'd sat too often of late, at the far end of a long wooden bar, drink in hand. He ran his thumb across the lip of his glass and stared into the amber depths. At the end of the long, long days of his suspension, he often ended up here, always on the same stool, drinking to numb himself enough to be able to get at least a few hours sleep. It wasn't ideal. His shrink didn't approve. But it was his way -- for now. He knew that as long as he could control this urge that maybe his entire life wasn't totally out of control. So he had a few beers. He did the Times crossword puzzle, although never in ink any more. Some nights he just stared at the paper and wished he could concentrate enough to read. He watched the basketball on the TV once in a while, but couldn't bring himself to care enough for it to hold his interest very long. He watched the other customers and wondered if their lives were as screwed up as his.
He hadn't planned to turn to alcohol. He didn't want that. He'd seen what it had done to his father, or rather he thought wryly, the man he was working to accept merely as his mother's husband. Thoughts of the dark days surrounding his mother's death crowded into his brain, and he ordered a stiff shot of whiskey, and chased it with another beer. He thought about going home, but he couldn't see the point. His whole life felt pointless right now. His cell phone rang, the screen blinking "Eames cell" and he flipped it shut on the third ring. He had nothing to say to her. She was still on the job, working with other partners now. Five months into his suspension, apathy was his new partner.